


We Pretend That The Voices In Our Heads Are Our Own

by Cinnamon_Girl



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Rise of Empire Era - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Metaphors, Anatomy, Gen, Masters & Apprentices, Poetry, Sith apprentices, Sith musing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-08-22 23:43:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8305714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamon_Girl/pseuds/Cinnamon_Girl
Summary: A collection of poetry and musings, all about the Sith. Will fill as inspiration strikes.





	1. Anatomy of Apprentices.

**\- Sheev.**

 

He has hands pale enough for them to look dry against the pages.  
A palm the color of flammable things, sliding over dead tongues and legends, like he wants to seize them all, squeeze the meaning out to feed himself whole.  
(So very hungry. So very greedy. Raging.)

Fingers clenching, unlocking like roots in the dirt, and when he holds them in mid air, they’re shaking. And the spark is murder, not lightning. (Not yet.)  
The books feel like his mother’s throat in his hand, like power. The stone feels like smashing his father’s skull, it scorches the skin raw and bleeding as he climbs.

A boy, still, but these hands can shape mountains. He knows.  
They dig the earth to plant seeds, water them, make them grow. (A flutter touch on blossoming, the goal is to burn it to the ground. Ashes for a fertile soil.)

Frail hands to start so much fire. Empty palms, thin fingers that drum like thunder, and the stars awaiting.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**\- Maul.**

 

There is something satisfying in the way one fits into shadows like teeth on a jawbone.  
Snarling is a predator’s weapon of choice. flashing sharpened bone digging into the gums as a message, a warning :  _run._

His mouth is the coffin of his tongue, and so he remains silent in prowling. Biting into the meat, the flesh, the fist, all mute devouring.  
Anger flares and flay like a split lip inside him, one dangerous wound of his being. (First is the soul, then the hearts.)

Insatiable hunter, yet never hungry. Eating oneself away is only primal, nature of the beast, essential to surviving.  
Prince in a realm of animals, he wears his crown inside the curve of his jaw, blood-stained with abuse and chewing.

His smiles are cruel in their ferocity, their boldness, formidable in the glimpse of canines. There is no telling whether it is a good omen or not.  
(They say his most terrible ones come with killing.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**\- Dooku.**

 

Has brown ever been colder ?  
Warmth was never at home in the rounds of his eyes. Still, they shine, or is it the dim sunlight caught in the mirror ?

Pupils like carved driftwood stare and stare and stare.  
(They blend in the shadow of his hood, black on darker. They appear in the day like stones at the bottom of a lake, clearer.)  
Still, brown will never be warm in his eyes.

Sometimes, when anger chokes in his throat, liquid nitrogen ready to spill and burn, they glow.  
Orange like blood in acid, sharp as pain, cold, cold, coldest.  
(He hates it. Remembers the color of the dead with their mouth gaping rotten air open in a field of hissing battles.)

He traces the line of them on the glass, hoping to erase it, all of it.  
The eyes, the face, the choices.

But then the poison gaze still seek the veined white, and his eyes will never know warmness.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**\- Asajj.**

 

How great it is to stand still.  
Better than standing above, but it wouldn’t feel any less sweeter to try. (Those who deserve it, she can count on her scars.)  
Tip toeing on knives edges, the rise tastes like tyrannicide.

She is angles and limbs, legs like a whip, neck-snapping, back-breaking, vile in lethality.  
Serpentine all the way to her folding bones, uncoiling steel ready to strike. She thrives on mercilessness, on snapping sinews under her heel, on violence through completion.

A twisted sway of hips to undo and lay weak for her to step upon, stairways of pouring scarlet to untamed kingdoms.  
(She leaps for all of them.)

And so she runs, up and high.  _Do I horrify ?_ She faces them, proud like the curve of her calves, and they’re afraid.  
Good. They should be.  
She’ll trip them down if she ever falls.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**\- Savage.**

 

The snaps blend : of muscles, of gears.  
Skin stretches and ends where iron begins with the humming of working loss, pulling and dragging.  
Ink into golden flesh into nerves running deep with meaning, into scar tissue and phantom pain.

This body was never his own, neither is the arm.  
(His hearts too grand then, lost in the ribcage now, holding to the shoulders.) How heavy can one’s chest be with the burden of sacrilege ?  
He is a matter of waste, filled to the bone crown with foreign purposes and expected to breathe easier.

Hearts breaking are a warrior’s purest death, and there had never been a back more fit to carry a brother’s world.  
Misused Atlas : when your death is only worth another’s lesson, that’s what being expendable means.

Remembrance is a last breath leaving. One cannot tell the aching of the lungs, the tightness of the throat.  
Fratricide doesn’t hurt enough to say.

 

 

 

 


	2. Our heads are battlefields none can ever win.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the Rule of Two.

Only two there are.  
Power and strength, domination through growing in devotion.  
(A master to beheld, an apprentice to receive.)

“Your heart always did beat the hardest.”

There is no ending, no beginning, our essence blurred together.  
For darkness is fertile, and creatures only bloom in shadows.  
(They claw their way out of torture with torn nails and hushed devotion.)

We are hatred in how our teeth beg for each other’s flesh.  
(How we rage, how we hurt.)  
We are sentiment at its rawest, barest, unhidden emotion.

We seek blood from others. We seek death from ourselves.  
(We dare swim low and would rather drown deep than be choked in plain light.)

We will march upon your peace to rule with red stained hands.  
“Bring me fire to consume, give me lives to take.”  
We will rise like an abyss and shout for war.


	3. Red, black and tragedy, these are your colors.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A love letter to Maul.

I would like to know the system some mischievous god stole from, to fill your eyes with suns.

  
Black has always adorned you, you drape yourself in it and hope to achieve warmness.  
(This you cannot fake. This you already have.)  
Blood tainted marble of victory, you have been sculpted so sharp you might cut those who approach you, or break under their touch.

  
(Their agony. Your sorrow. Which are you denying first ?)

  
Child named for massacres, darkness follows you. You cloak yourself in shadows and call it love.  
Put your head to rest, bruised abuser, halt your assaults, turn off the celestial bodies of your eyes, sleep.

  
Your soul is not worthless and yes, you deserve to be embraced.


	4. A monster with gasoline dreams.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Palpatine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicaced to Videtur, for being an endless source of inspiration.

What is it like  
To live with a leviathan heart ?

 

How heavy must be the soul  
Of a man built from stars.

(Not the bright, nor the young,  
But the collapsing ones.)

 

There’s an ink-black darkness behind  
Lying eyes, drowning waters  
Fulling the very core of him.

 

A God’s howl is oh so quiet  
Compared to the roar of his mind.

Thoughts whispering like the screech of a river,  
And centuries running in the veins.

 

_What is it like_   
_To live with a leviathan heart ?_

 

Rows and rows of snapping teeth,  
A thousand eyes staring you  
Into terror, claws like mountains,  
The fury of wronged rulers.

A millennial beast beating  
For the fire of dying suns.

 

Are you horrified yet ?

 

 

You will be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Let’s talk about the children.

 

See I’m tired.

 

 

I know all about the way the hero fell and his friends and loves went with him, about how he found the light again and they all died happily ever after.

 

(Am I angry ? Good, you should be too.)

 

I have nothing against the hero, I bid him farewell like the rest of us and there is still a shrine in my heart for his boldness.

But I’m tired.

I know all about how the villains rose and carried darkness with them, casting a night as eternal as a candle, I know how they melted away along the journey, paving the road for the next ambush.

 

Now answer this : why does the heroes get to have ups and downs where the villains only have straight lines ?

 

(Maybe their fall was a victory to them, maybe the day they stood proud was the worst moment of their lives. How do we know.)

 

I see shadows all right, blood, revenge, heads and bodies rolling, I see lightning.

But this is not the story I want anymore. I want to read about the sun, about how it hides behind thick black clouds and how you can cover it all you want but it will never stop shining.

 

Where are these lights ?  
What happened to them ?

 

 

There was a boy so curled up on himself, so scared of failing, but he had the biggest family one could ever have and they all loved him for he was _oh_ so very bright. And he was so afraid that all he could see of himself was a tightening spring never daring to unfold.

Why can’t we see the day he opened himself up and found out how huge the world is, how terrifyingly beautiful, how many lives it breathes and how well he fits into it all. I want to see the smile and hear the _“I did it, Master.”_ and feel the entire universe inside this soul.

(But being light footed never protects you against the heavy water. How could they know how painful it is for a flame to die out : he loved as much as they did and was wronged for it.)

 

 

There was a boy - horn-crowned, wild-hearted -, and the unknown. A window to wonder on how the earth would feel under his feet, how his red hands would dance in the fire. A boy given away, a boy startled by his own reflection, thinking ( _hoping_ ) that it could be somebody else.

Why can’t they show the day he sang the animals alive, learned their language and made it his, named the nameless and made it a friend, took the liveless and made it fly and jump and shine.

(Did he see the hunter in the reflection ? The killer, the man. Did he know he’d be only worth the amount of bodies behind him ? Life is so much more than a window’s glass view and it’s crueler for it.)

 

 

There was a boy who was born hurricane, who smiled like a forest creature and talked like a fast-paced river. He would gaze at the sky and when he’d say _“This is what I want”_ he’d mean _“Everywhere.”_

Why is it that we’ve never been told of the day he raced down the hill, arms spread wide as if to seize the wind, trailing pollen from the flown over flowers behind him, and he laughed so loud he felt like bursting into freedom, just like that.

(They never told him he’d have to shape stars, fills himself whole with the void, makes monsters out of himself. They never told him he’d die in a coffin-built planet, away from the hills.)

 

 

Why do we only know some heroes ?

 

I am tired and I feel like crying for all those who dried their eyes thinking it’d pass for murdering innocence.

 

Because the universe holds so many suns that we’ll never heard about and believe them lightless.

Because there were boys where men stand and they all once dreamt to leap the gap between worlds and live, live, _live._

 

I am angry. I anger. Not to hurt but to see.

I am raging to live as they once did, cursed but gifted.

 

Children who took the light in because they never knew how dark it could be later.

 

 

  
These are the stories I want to read.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been rereading books lately and I've been struck not by Sith apprentices, but the persons that they were before that. Be it Dooku's life in the temple, Maul's early years on Mustafar or Palpatine's childhood, and especially how genuinely curious and eager they were to explore, learn, discover.
> 
> Fate is a very strange thing in the star wars universe, and I'm not saying I regret that they became what we know them as, far from it, but I regret that we don't talk about these poor kids more, they're ridiculously uplifting and inspiring !
> 
> (This is basically an answer to all the people claiming that either any or all Sith are unimportant/evil to the core, or that the Force is purely black and white.)


	6. Prayer to a dying Sith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!!! SPECIAL INFORMATION !!!!!!
> 
> Ive finally come around to upload my reading of the 5th chapter !!!!!! here's the link people : https://youtu.be/3GAlBo8UMJg  
> (yes...... I tried things....... also my voice wasnt cooperative and you can cut my accent with an axe, BUT my phone had a surprisingly good recording quality ???? anyway, have it)
> 
> and also please please please go listen to Lightpoint's rendering of the first four chapters if you haven't already, she did AWESOME and Im still in awe
> 
> in the meantime : happy reading~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hear me my Lord.

 

I beg you.

 

I beg for your flesh, for the light made sword into your spine, dagger into your neck. I beg for thunder.

Tell me, my Lord.  
What have you done. Where you went, who to blame. Tell me if they remembered your cries when they abandoned you and called it releasing.

I do.

No memory should be wasted, no wound forgiven, nothing, nothing. I swear.

One can only be worthless when they stop being loved and I always fall for the breathless anyway.

 

So tell me.

How many Hells for tears left unshed, or is it honesty that you want ?

 

My Lord, you cannot fall.  
There’s a god in you, I confess. I found it.

I found it and started praying.

I started praying because I forgot the time when my heart wasn’t breaking for you.

 

My Lord, pick up your body, pick up your head, the pieces of your hearts and soul, the many fragments of you.

_Please._

Pick it up and walk.

 

Climb away the pit of your end even when I know you never ever left it.

_Please. Please. Please._

 

Your pyre still lives my Lord.

_Don’t leave._

 

What’s being dead a little longer then ?

_Please don’t. Please, my Lord._

 

_I’ll hold my tongue, I’ll show my teeth, I’ll bare my throat._  
_I will, I always will._

 

_I’ll weep, I’ll scream. I am._

 

 

_I am._

 

_Stay. Stay, my Lord._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Stay, stay, stay, stay…_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say, I had one character in mind while writing this, and it became much more personal than intended because of it : Maul.
> 
> I don't know how many of you are following or catching up with Rebels, but let's say that I don't really want to ignore what's coming. (Because it's coming, his story has gone on for a long time already, it would make sense for them to put an end to it.) And even after burying so many Sith, it's still gonna hurt, especially when it comes to this one.
> 
> (One day I'll try writing happy stuff....... maybe.......... its hard with such breathtakingly beautifully heartbreaking muses.........)

**Author's Note:**

> Comment the lines you like most, I'm curious and eager for an outside viewpoint on this.


End file.
